The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Chel Owens

Welcome to the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest, a tortuous tradition for 40 weeks today.

At some point, each person feels a muse-like itch to poem. Most really shouldn’t, and that is exactly the sort of rhythmic recitation we seek to write and compete with. Read my basic outline here to clear up any further confusion about expectations (there are none).

Here are the specifics for this week:

  1. I’ve thought short and shallowly about the Topic, and it shall be Shakespearean laments. If you don’t know what a Shakespearean lament is, Google is your friend. And William Shakespeare.
  2. If you wishe to truley showe offe, go ahead and maketh the Lengthe a traditional iambic pentameter couplet. If ye wisheth not, at least keep the duration to that of a reasonable amount so as not to send the masses into a Midsummer night’s dream.
  3. Since The Bard most often Rhymed or near-rhymed, ye muste as well.
  4. Above all else, ye knaves, make it terrible! Off-the-cuff Shakespearean performers must give you a standing ovation, followed by throwing the foulest fruit they’ve purchased from the nearest funnel cake food truck.
  5. Keep things PG or lower. If ye must insult or deprave, use Elizabethan curses.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (August 30) to submit a poem.

Use the form below if you want to be anonymous for a week.

If not, and for a more social experience, include your poem or a link to it in the comments.

Have fun!

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Photo credit:
Image by WikiImages from Pixabay

22 thoughts on “The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest”

  2. Based on Richard III

    I had a Molly, till a Tommy killed him;
    I had a Barney, till a Tommy killed him:
    Thous hadst a Molly, till a Tommy killed him;
    Thou hadst a Tommy, till a Tommy killed him.
    She for a Molly weeps, and so do I;
    I for a Chloe weep, so doth not she:
    These babes for Chloe weep and so do I;
    I for a Molly weep, so do not they.
    I never realized until now just how many pet cats we’ve had over the years.

    Liked by 2 people

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  7. The Sonnet 73 butchering – I may have accidentally changed some of the Bards words.

    That time of year thou decides to do some baking and behold

    Knowing the results will be that bad my shame do hang

    Upon finding I forgot to turn the oven on and thy food is still cold
    Bare ruined I shall burn all food until the cry PLEASE LORD NO MORE is sang
    In me thou see’st the worst kitchen abominations performed anywhere in the land that day
    
As after sunset fadeth the Fire Engine arrives to put out the oven fires from the west
    Which by and by blackend food is thrown away
    
Death’s icy grip can be seen in the stodgy bread as it refuses to rise as long as it do rest
    In my donuts the taste of vileness and repulsiveness does such fire
    That on the ashes of the badly overcooked Rhubard crumble do lie
    As the death-bed do lyeth anyone who tastes the food with the use by date do expire
    
Consum’d is the food not by any sane man but dumped in the bin by any brave passersby
    
This thou has bakethed food with a nauseating odour so strong
    To love the simple beauty of a frozen microwave meal I do long

    Liked by 2 people

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  9. Richard II’s Lament for Lost Socks

    For good gravy’s sake, let us sitteth upon the ground
    And tell weepy type stories about the death of socks
    Forsooth some were dropped behind the dryer and never found
    Whilst some unraveled after being stuffed with pointy rocks
    Some wore thin ‘til their sole was naught but a gaping hole
    And thus were promptly tossed into yon dustbin to expire
    Whilst other simply vanished like as though into a black hole
    Still more grew to smell as though dragged through a mire
    All vanished! For within the empty sock drawer
    There sits naught but a few mismatched pairs
    To be worn, like the raven said (oops wrong poet!) nevermore

    Liked by 1 person

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